The Writer
by tomoyosita
Summary: He wrote like a man possessed, without stopping, without blinking, no matter the time or the signals that his body sent to him desperately, telling his most urgent needs. He was sleepy, hungry and cold, the summer sun had disappeared and the night breeze was playing him a trick ... but he didnt stop.


Sooo. Yes, im sorry sososoos sorry I forget about twilight for klaine. But you know. Real life its so annoying.!

So have this oneshot . sorry for the bad English!

He was leaning against his window, staring at the street. He could not concentrate on the outside world, he could not feel the heat and enjoy smell of summer: he could only think about their history. He had begun to write it six months ago, and at the precise moment when he would finish it he realized that it was impossible. Desperate, he tried over and over again to convince himself that what had to happen, it was the only alternative ...but that simply was not fair to let such a story unfinished. Failed. Kurt had to die, he knew, but could not allow it. So he let the hours, days elapse monotonically without a word fresh is stamped on the paper, it is clear that this attitude did not help solve their problems. He had managed to create the man of his dreams. The perfect man. And no reason, had made he suffer; he had destroyed his life, had left he shattered and now the guilt prevented him from finishing what he started. Every time he approached the pen to paper his pulse trembled, he felt a lump in his throat and his eyesight was blurred, he could feel his pain twisting and winding through every molecule of his body, what tore his entrails and mocked him for his doubts.

He loved Kurt, loved he from the moment he had been created, and that frustration that made him impossible and that crazy love had led him to torture he in the most cruel ways now, only now he realized his mistake. So was not able to see that every cry of Kurt, every tremor, every cry of pain was not a reflection of his own misery. When he cried, he was trying, in vain to do the same thing when he begged to die, he prolonged his life as he wanted his own death, and after overtaking Kurt the last of his strength, he stopped.

He kept thinking it might have been different: Kurt could have given the life he deserved ... but in that life this story would never have existed. He had to admit that this novel was the best he had written in his life, but that would have been for the effort he had put on was mistreating the hero disturbing. He had days without sleeping, eating and drinking air, and was beginning to feel sick. He wondered what would happen if he die on the spot. He wondered who would take care of Kurt then, wondering if everyone would forget about he and let he to bleed forever, with open wounds and begging for an end close, crying, choking on his own blood. Maybe not, maybe some kind soul decides to continue his work and give him a second chance ...

No. he had to stay alive until placed end to the life of Kurt, nobody would do the dirty work for him, nobody would care so much for it. Because nobody, absolutely nobody, felt a love so deep and devastating for the man. No one except him.

The sound of a knock on the door brought him out of his reverie. He reach slowly toward her and opened it with reluctance. Until he saw he.

There he was, fragile and beautiful as blaine had imagined. Kurt, the Kurt, staring back at him from the other side of the door, he managed to do nothing but admire its beauty, and his heart raced and his soul was shattered.

He came with a mixture of lightness and elegance and placed a sweet kiss on the lips of his creator, he froze, indeed, and felt bitter tears rolling down his cheeks. After a few moments was finally able to move, and all he went through his mind was that he wanted to kiss him again. He did, as if the first and last kiss he would give in his life he did, and Kurt let him.

When his lungs begged for a drop of air, they separated. Kurt passed his hand across his face, wiping his tears. But blaine did not stop shaking, pain, cold, anxiety, fear. Of love.

'Sorry,' he said finally, taking Kurt's hand in his. God ... what I did? Blaine whispered while tears choked his words-I did not want, did not want, never ...

'I know -he said, hugging him.

I love you, Kurt, -he admitted, aware of how ridiculous it sounded that phrase out of his mouth.- I love you.

-So ...

Silence. Demolition, final.

-No. No. .. not that.

Yes, yes ...

-But ...

'Please, Blaine' he asked, beginning to mourn -Please.

That was too much for him, the straw that broke the camel, the stitch of pain needed to decide. He nodded. Kurt gave him a light kiss, the most fleeting of all, the sweetest and the bitterest, the most painful, or in other words, the last.

He walked into his home and promptly went to the desk where a manuscript lay undisturbed, and terrible still, waiting, calling. He sat down and took his pen slowly. Remained static for a few seconds, looking for the right words for a fitting end, definitive and certainly painful. The grand finale, he thought. And he wrote.

He wrote like a man possessed, without stopping, without blinking, no matter the time or the signals that his body sent to him desperately, telling his most urgent needs. He was sleepy, hungry and cold, the summer sun had disappeared and the night breeze was playing him a trick ... your body. He does.

Then came the moment, his hand stopped, pen poised over paper, waiting to put the final point of the ordeal. When he was making the fateful move to support the pen, could hear a faint "thank you" from nowhere and uttered in the saddest voice ever heard, and felt, irreversibly, his heart was broken to pieces while he killed the one true love of his life.


End file.
